Forgotten
by Hard Luck Woman1
Summary: Draco Malfoy is becoming lost in a world where he was taught never to express sentiment. He now tries to hold on to whatever life is left. Harry Potter has begun to forget what it means to live. Can they remember what they forgot? *Not Slash*


Disclaimer: I don't own any of Harry Potter or it's contents.  
  
*~~*  
  
Draco Malfoy opened his silver eyes slowly, allowing the world about him to develop before his eyes like a photograph. He found himself staring absently at the high, arched ceiling and support columns that created the covering for the infirmary. He blinked once as to clear away whatever fog was left from his sleep. Had he been sleeping? In order to be sleeping, didn't you have to know that you were doing so? And Draco Malfoy was not aware that he had been sleeping.  
  
He wasn't aware of much. He had no idea how he arrived upon this mattress of pure white that resembled warm snow its appearance and texture. Nor had he any idea what had occurred before he opened his eyes. It were as though he had been reborn and every breath he took was his first, and every noise he heard was the first time that his ears had echoed those sound waves.  
  
Draco attempted to cock his head to one side, but found that it was nearly impossible. It felt as though his muscles had stiffened and forbid him to move. He strained his muscles, and they gave way. He then found himself gaping at two figures that stood a short distance away. They were two men, Draco observed and noted. A small region of his brain began to turn mechanically as he tried to recall where he had seen these two foreign men before. Draco examined the man who stood closest to him. The man was positioned with his back toward Draco, and therefore Malfoy could not make out much of his appearance. Draco did note, however, that he had long, pale, draping hair that flowed elegantly down his back. It appeared as though it had been combed through thousands of times, for there was not even the smallest of tangles visible to Draco. An emerald satin ribbon had bundled the strands of blonde together loosely. It seemed to serve more as to keep the hair from falling into his face, rather than for appearance. This man's body was draped in a black cloak. It seemed to be made out of a heavy material because it hung rather limply to the floor.  
  
The figure moved his arm quickly as he gesticulated to the other man. As he did so, he flashed a silver watch and gloved hands. Realization dawned upon Malfoy like the cold grey morning light that had crept through the window above him. Draco had seen that body structure and demeanour somewhere before. Somewhere familiar. His eyes widened slightly, revealing more of his silver spheres like the moon appearing from beneath the clouds. That small part of his brain had made the connection then that the figure was his father. Draco tried yet could remember nothing more about his father. It ailed him immensely, and no matter how hard the effort to recall, he couldn't. It was like his mind was paralysed, not able to move at all, like the nerves were severed or torn.  
  
The man his father was talking to suddenly grew silent in the middle of his speech and peered at Draco over his half-moon spectacles that reflected the filtered sunlight. The man was elderly and frail in his old age. His voice was low and raspy yet full of wisdom. His long coarse beard fell from his face in one large wisp much like an icicle. His skin was old and wrinkled, creases tracing his face and hands like some markings reminiscent of his youth and serving as reminders to his age. His eyes glittered with knowledge and respect, and as they travelled to observe Draco, they glinted with an endearing charm. They narrowed slightly as his wrinkled lips spread into a genuine grin that seemed to make his aged creases disappear and, for that brief moment, made him appear somewhat younger.  
  
"Ah," the elderly man proclaimed as his eyes met Draco's across the room and the two connected. "He is awake, Lucius." The elderly man than proceeded in strolling towards Draco and stood beside him, looking down at Draco through his spectacles. His father - named Lucius, Draco observed - followed behind the old man, his head bowed to the ground as if showing respect. Yet, somewhere, something told Draco that his father wasn't one to easily give respect. It was like a medal of honour that wasn't visible unless you looked deeper. His father positioned himself reluctantly adjacent to the aged man.  
  
The elderly figure stared inquiringly at Draco. "Mr. Malfoy," the older man began softly as though Draco's ears were sensitive. Draco's mind faltered slightly. Malfoy? Draco drew his eyebrows together with bewilderment. Now that he had thought about it, he hadn't the smallest fraction of an idea as to who he was or anything about him. His mind began to race, and his heart began to beat faster. His palms grew moist with perspiration. Who was he? How did he end up here in the infirmary? And how was it, that he could remember the insignificant parts about him yet couldn't recall that which was vital to him? To Draco it was like he was trapped in someone else's body, and he wanted to break away from his encapturement.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy," the elderly man called somewhere from beyond the fog that filled Draco's mind. The voice had an enchanting effect that seemed to drain the mist occupying Draco. He focused on that voice. "My name is Dumbledore. I am Headmaster here at Hogwarts," he stated as calmly as a lazy pond.  
  
Draco's mind slowly plugged together all the pieces of information he was given, and it took him only a brief moment for the memory of Hogwarts to come flooding back. And as it did, it filled a portion of the emptiness he had felt within him. Yes, of course, now he could remember quite a bit about Hogwarts and himself. His name was Draco Malfoy. He was a Slytherin, probably due to the fact that he was a Malfoy, and all the Malfoys prior to his arrival at the school were in Slytherin. He was in his seventh and final year. He could recall Harry Potter, the name that made his blood boil and eyes burn every time he heard it. Famous Harry Potter had always upstaged him, and his Malfoy pride had been crushed because of this.  
  
Draco's glance went to his father then. Lucius Malfoy, the man that taught him to loathe Harry Potter and Mudbloods alike. The same man that taught Draco about his family's rules of conduct. It was that very same man who, if asked to, would turn Draco over to his master, Lord Voldemort. "You had better mind your expressions," Lucius barked at Draco. Draco realized that he was glowering at his father and was as shocked by it as Lucius had been.  
  
"Come now, Lucius. His memory could have been compromised. Forgive him," Dumbledore said. Lucius glared at Dumbledore inwardly, yet outwardly retained that same callous expression that only Malfoys could portray without intending to be hostile. "Whatever the case shall be, Headmaster, I assure you that there is no excuse for Draco to glower at his own father," Lucius hissed. "I taught you better than that," he added coldly, piercing Draco with his stare and reminding Draco of everything he hated about his father.  
  
Draco mentally cringed as he recalled how his father had forced him to go to every Death Eater meeting that was held in the Malfoy Manor or elsewhere. Draco strongly resisted and protested to his appearance at the meeting. Nevertheless, when he did he would end up going anyway; however, he would sport a large blue bruise upon his fair cheek. He would be inquired upon his imperfection, and he had been told to respond truthfully with such replies as 'my father beat me because I wished not to attend.' Even had Draco not responded as he was instructed, his father would certainly remind him that he had bruised him once and was not afraid to do so again.  
  
Prior to the meeting, Draco would be forced to endure a long lecture on proper etiquette. He would be told to respond with respect to inquiries and to be truthful except, of course, if it meant being rude to the guests. The lecture was regularly punctuated with Lucius reminding his son how worthless he was and how ashamed Lucius was of his son, and Draco had to bear the insults with as much dignity as he could muster. However, the words materialized within him and stabbed his heart, tearing away any sentiment he felt for his father.  
  
Following the lecture, Draco would be quizzed upon the Malfoy Rules of Conduct. These rules had been in the family ever since the Malfoys had been expected to live up to the public's opinion that they were nothing but heartless, callous wizards. Draco thought that Father went beyond the expectations, however, and it seemed as though Lucius were trying desperately to live up to his own expectations of himself; to be one of the most feared wizards in the world. Moreover, his demeanour had been so bitter and cold that it sent a wave of arctic hate throughout the people of the wizarding world, and this hate soon led to uncouth trepidation.  
  
If one thing had gone awry during Draco's appearance at the conference, the blame had always been placed upon him. Once the Death Eaters had left, Draco would be tortured until he promised that he had learned the error in his ways. However, the torture Draco received could never measure to the pain he felt as he heard his father tell him how ashamed he was of his son and how Lucuis let Draco know how he had wished that Draco was never born to create such a disgrace to the family name. The torture he endured hurt physically and left scars that others could see and fear, serving as a marking to his father's unrelenting and unloving behaviour. However, the emotional hurt Draco suffered damaged him more, leaving scars only visible to those that cared enough to see them. Most people, however, didn't care and thus Draco's scars remained unhealed and dug into his skin, into his veins and flooded his blood with a constrained hatred towards his father who had created these wounds. Draco was half-surprised that his father hadn't taken his antagonism out upon his mother, Narcissa, who was the solitary light within Draco's darkened world, and although that light had filtered some of the dimness, he was still always cast in shadows. Draco almost began to believe that perhaps his father had a small fraction of a heart within his cold body that weakly pumped some compassion into him. Yet, Draco then remembered Rule of Conduct number 1,215 - "Never touch a woman, unless it is mating time." Mating time. Is that how they saw Draco? As some ill-bred creature that deserved to be locked within a cage of repugnance?  
  
Draco's mind grew weary and ailing from his horrible flashbacks. It was as though his father had been a disease that left him dying inside. He needn't be reminded of his father's actions when he had the impurities upon his skin that stood as a constant reminder. "Mr. Malfoy, can you tell us what day it is today?" Draco recognized Dumbledore's raspy voice and it pushed through his intellect, tearing his terrible existence away from his thoughts, and pushing them to some further area of his brain where he would wake up one night sweating from those distant thoughts.  
  
Draco nodded slowly as the question processed through his paralysed mind. His gesture was hesitant to say the least, and Dumbledore's quick mentality, the only thing that remained alive within a body of decay, picked up on this hesitance. The old man's eyes glinted with an imperceptible emotion that was concealed by his strong eyes' barrier. Draco's mind began to turn slowly like a rusted wheel, trying to figure out the day in which he was living.  
  
Draco craned his neck to gaze through the glass of the window beside his four-post bed. The sky outside had been erased of the cold grey light that preceded sunrise, and was now painted with rich ginger and brilliant yellows and mother of pearl colours that blended together to create a canvas portrait. The sun hung like a golden gem upon the horizon, waking the sleeping world with its early rays. The dew upon the emerald blades that fashioned the grass upon the Hogwarts grounds glistened within the morning light like diamonds. Where the jade undergrowth and orange sky met, sat the distant silhouette of the Forbidden Forest like black velvet that was weaved into the surrounding blanket that created the world outside. As Draco sat there, gazing deeply outside he felt as though he were out there. He believed as though he were liberated from his father and from all responsibility in the shallow world, and all that mattered was that the sun set and rise and this beauty live on forever.  
  
"Answer his question, Draco," Lucius commanded, his voice sharp, cutting Draco out from his envisioned portrait and pasting him back onto his infirmary bed.  
  
Draco turned slowly, reluctantly as though his father's voice had its firm grip around Draco and pulled him toward Lucius. Draco didn't want to part from his paradise just beyond his window, an arm's length away. He stared deeply into his father's hallow, grey eyes that seemed so shallow that they could hold no sentiment within them. His father's eyes that seemed to be veined only by wretched abhorrence for everything and everyone they happened to land on. Those eyes that Draco himself had inherited from his father, yet couldn't tolerate to look at. "I don't remember," Draco confessed solemnly. He let his eyes slide towards Dumbledore and, for a brief moment, Draco could've sworn that he saw the foundation beneath Dumbledore's eyes crumble and weaken to reveal a sense of consternation. However, the composition quickly rebuilt itself and his eyes resumed their usual sturdy demeanour.  
  
"Fool, can't even remember that it is Thursday," Lucius bellowed loudly with contempt, becoming even more ashamed than imaginable by this boy who would carry on the Malfoy name. Lucius's eyes quickly flickered away from Draco as though the very sight made him unwell. "Lucius, that was quite a fall he took. You were watching as well. No one should have been able to survive from a height such as the one young Malfoy here fell from. You should be grateful," Dumbledore reminded Lucius softly, his temper never wavering with this condescending man.  
  
"Grateful?" Lucius spat as though the word was foul and didn't belong in his vocabulary. "The only day I'll be grateful for this boy is that day he does something worthy of my gratitude," he retorted acidly. The acid from Lucius's voice rained down upon Draco and burned through his skin, stinging him. He absorbed what his father said, yet remained silent, for he was taught better than to speak back to his father. "Lucius, I believe it is time for us to leave Mr. Malfoy in peace. I need to speak with you outside." Dumbledore then gave one last long glance at Draco's pale face as if he were unable to remove them from the ailing boy. Dumbledore's eyes seemed to speak to Draco, though he couldn't understand what they said, as though they were communicating with him in a foreign language.  
  
At long last, Dumbledore turned away from Draco's bed-ridden body and drifted down the infirmary's stone flooring like a ghost. His steps were solemn and soft, quietly tapping upon the stonework like a pianist playing a melancholic piece. His flowing gowns and wizard hat then disappeared into the shadow beyond the arch doorway. Lucius pursued, never giving one backward glance at Draco, and ostentatiously disappeared into the darkness as well.  
  
Draco was now alone and let his eyes trace back to his paradise just outside his window once again. Then he let his stone eyes flutter shut, preserving the image of his ecstasy while he slept.  
  
*~~*  
  
Several days later, Harry Potter found himself dashing down the corridor, his untidy black hair falling into his face, and his broken glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He was late for Potions, and he didn't even want to fathom about how Snape would react when Harry would approach the dungeon room as tardy. He tightened his grip about his books so as to serve as a guard, preventing the books from falling to the flooring below, and causing him to be even more delayed in his mad-dash for the Potions classroom.  
  
Harry began to pant loudly like a dog in heat as the sweat began to punctuate his brow and panic swelled within his emerald eyes. His footsteps pounded loudly upon the marble floor like drums and the empty halls reverberated the sound within his head louder than they were; reminders to his absence. Harry's mind became occupied with thoughts about what Snape would do to him for his tardiness. It would have been one thing had he only be absent once or possibly twice, but Harry had arrived late for every class since he had his schedule changed and he had to come from Trelawney's tower.  
  
Harry's surroundings played into view now as the rich oil paintings and hall décor flashed past him in a vast spectrum of colours. He had been moving so fast that he could hardly register his surroundings until he came skidding to a halt. He began to breathe heavier as though the oxygen was thin, and his diaphragm constricted when at last he stopped sprinting. He clutched at his chest; his hand grasping the muscle and flesh that served as a protection to his heart, as though gripping it would prevent his heart from beating so ferociously within its cage. He felt his blood run hot through his crimson tributaries like a river.  
  
Harry's eyes then focused on what had caused him to stop in the first place. A set of proverbial unquestioning eyes that had seemed out of character in some way stared down upon him, burning through his flesh. "Professor. Dumbledore," Harry managed to let out between gulps of oxygen. "Sir, sorry.late for.Potions," Harry elaborated, anxiously hoping that his heart and lungs would maintain regularity. Dumbledore raised a flippant hand, as to wipe the topic away. "I need no explanations, Harry. However, I have been looking for you," he stated in a weary raspy voice.  
  
Harry's breath slowly returned to a normal intake and exhalation, and he replied in a voice of bewilderment. "For me?" "Precisely. Come with me," Dumbledore instructed gently before turning and walking down the desolate corridor. Harry followed solemnly, torn between being slightly afraid yet curious at the same time.  
  
Dumbledore had led the way for Harry like a beacon of light in absolute silence. It was as though he were in some deep train of thought and that he was somewhere else as he walked mechanically down numerous corridors, until they had reached their destination. Harry realized the distinct arch doorway, for he had walked, limped, and been carried through it many times before. "Why are we at the infirmary, sir?" Harry asked enquiringly.  
  
Dumbledore faced Harry and Harry inwardly gasped upon seeing Dumbledore's face. His wrinkles appeared more prominent and the bags below his eyes hung lower, making him appear as though he had aged quickly from their short walk. "It has been a very long month," Dumbledore sighed in a voice full of wistful thought and astringent regret. Harry stared at Dumbledore, his eyes vacant. That's all he could do; he had no clue as to what the Headmaster was speaking of, and the passion and sombreness in his voice made Harry think twice before asking him to elaborate. "You and Malfoy have been at ends. Have you not?"  
  
Harry's brow furrowed. Of all questions in the world, this was the last one Harry had expected. He had to think about it, really. Of course, Harry had told himself that he was enemies with Draco, however perhaps there was more to it than that. Harry had always concealed his faint envy of Draco's appearance and status without fame by a front of revulsion and antipathy.  
  
Harry nodded. "Yeah, I guess you could say that," Harry replied in a way, so he knew he wasn't lying to Dumbledore, for he had no idea where the Headmaster was going with this.  
  
Dumbledore gazed into Harry's eyes and Harry gazed deeply into Dumbledore's, and for a moment their eyes locked and intertwined, a mixture of youth and age, opposites yet at this brief moment, one in the same. Harry could see something was wrong as he looked into those eyes of aged blue, for they were out of sync and their usual characteristic strength was weakened by some unknown virus within. "Mr. Malfoy is envious of you. That is why he acts as though he hates you. And perhaps he does, but it is only because he knows he cannot surpass you. You must understand his family history."  
  
Harry was beyond perplexed as though that feeling had long since abandoned him, and his temporary emptiness was occupied with an unusual sense of shock which arose from his scruples.  
  
"Professor?" Harry asked feebly, his voice sounding hoarse and rusty.  
  
Dumbledore turned away from Harry and raised his bearded chin to inspect the window beyond the castle. It was morning and the bright blue sky was painted with white, while the golden sun scorched the earth like a burning jewel. Harry opened his mouth to ask the Headmaster to explain, however Dumbledore's voice seemed to come out. "I think you should settle your differences, Harry," Dumbledore said in a voice unlike his own; a voice that almost sounded troubled and unknowing.  
  
"Why, Professor?" Harry inquired weakly, half-afraid of the answer.  
  
Dumbledore then turned his gaze away from the window and looked directly ahead, down the empty corridors. His voice remained stable, however it was quivering with an imperceptible emotion. "He is," Dumbledore hesitated as he tried to pass the lump forming within his throat, strangling his voice, "dying, Harry." And with that final sentence, Dumbledore began to slowly walk down the corridor, as though every step he took pained his aging bones.  
  
Harry's profound green eyes widened, allowing them to become entirely visible like emeralds tinted with lighter jade. The thought resounded through his mind as though it were as empty as the hall that he was in. The silence in his psyche seemed to make those words more pronounced and excruciating.  
  
Harry craned his neck toward the infirmary door and through the small gap between the unclosed infirmary door and frame, he could see the outline and indistinct colours of Draco's figure that was dying even as Harry stood there thinking about it.  
  
Perhaps he should apologise. Harry hadn't meant most of which happened amongst himself and Draco, but he was playing the part he was given. He was sure Draco felt the same way. After all, he was dying and if Draco didn't accept the apology, at least Harry's conscience was cleared.  
  
Harry confirmed his motives and drew a deep breath, pushing the infirmary door open.  
  
*~~* 


End file.
